


Below Zero

by unsettled



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Ice Play, Kinktober, M/M, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Temperature Play, i love that that is a tag that pops up, peter is kind of bratty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26912767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Peter didn’t even know it was possible to feel this cold.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 2
Kudos: 36
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	Below Zero

It hadn't sounded so bad when Quentin mentioned it.

Sure, cold is never great, but Peter handles temperature extremes a lot better now and like... ice melts? It's not going to stay cold for that long. Just enough to be something a little different.

Maybe it's just that he can't see what Quentin is doing with this blindfold on, only feel it. Maybe that's why such stupid little ice cubes feel like they're going to give him frostbite, god. They're  _ freezing _ on his nipples, and then even when the ice is gone they're still wet and cold and just get colder with every slight movement of air over them. And it's distracting how Quentin is dragging the ice down his body, how cold water is running down his sides and catching in his belly button, but it's not distracting enough.

Even when there isn't any ice in Quentin's hands, his  _ hands _ are somehow so cold they might as well be ice. So cold they feel like they're branding Peter everywhere they touch, all along his sides and his neck and his legs, nudging his thighs further apart.

And then not touching him, Peter tensing, wondering which it's going to be next, which— it's ice, cold drops falling down on him almost painfully, like they're little balls of metal instead, hard and cold and he flinches at each one. Shivers as they roll down his sides, as the dripping moves down his stomach, pooling in the hollow of his hips before it runs down the crease of his leg. He's shaking, breathing hard through his nose as drop after drop hit his thighs, the sheets below him damp and cold every time he shifts even a little.

It stops, and Quentin gives him a minute, a long horrible minute that maybe is supposed to let Peter unwind but just does the opposite. Gives him a minute and then his hand—his huge, ice cold hand—is on Peter's cock. Peter yelps, his legs pulling up without a thought; holy shit that  _ hurts. _

He's not sure if it's Quentin's hand getting warmer, or his cock getting colder, cold enough he starts to go soft, but the painful first shock of it fades. Quentin notices, of course he does, and then his other hand is on Peter, on his balls and just as cold, Peter trying so hard to squirm away from it. Trying not to whimper as it moves lower, tracing behind his balls and right over his hole, failing completely as Quentin presses it in, just a bit. Quentin laughs, because he is an  _ asshole. _ Why did Peter agree to this?

Quentin's hand is gone from his cock and Peter has just enough time to think  _ oh no  _ before it's back. Before it's holding an ice cube right up against the base of his cock, sliding it up and rubbing it over the head and oh my god, Peter is going to die, his cock is going to freeze and fall right off. "Quentin," he gasps.

"Cold?" Quentin says, and Peter can hear the smirk.

"I hate you," Peter hisses. "Yes I'm cold!"

"Feel pretty warm to me," Quentin says, pushing his finger further in, and that's not as cold, sure. He's still rubbing the ice over Peter's cock, and the trickles of water down the length of it are just as bad, running further down and spreading cold onto his balls, down his ass.

Quentin drops the ice cube—what's left of it—on Peter's stomach. He flinches at that, and it slides off to his side; when he wiggles, it ends up underneath him somehow, and that's awful, the cold of it a single painful spot on his back. Peter's just about to complain about that, because it's not  _ fair, _ Quentin didn't even put it there, when there's suddenly heat all around his cock, warm amazing fantastic heat. Peter moans, thrusting up into Quentin's mouth, so warm, so nice, so— 

"Oh  _ fuck," _ Peter gasps, Quentin's other hand back, with more horrible ice in it, cupped against Peter's balls. He can feel them twitch, try and draw up and escape, but Quentin's hand won't let them; Peter jerks and ends up more in Quentin's mouth and he can't think at all, hot and cold like that. Can't breathe when Quentin's hand moves lower, that melting ice right up against Peter's hole, painfully cold for the few seconds before Quentin pushes it into him.

There's a long, brutally cold moment that makes Peter gasp and clench down despite himself, and then there's just— relief almost, the cold gone. He knows it's still in there, can still feel that uncomfortable fullness but at least it's not cold. Even the melting ice that starts to trickle out of him isn't that cold, and if Quentin does that again he's probably going to scream but it's not the worst.

Quentin pulls off his cock then; the usual chilly feeling of air cooling that wetness is barely even noticeable now. "Turn over," he tells Peter, and actually that sounds like a great idea, hiding himself against the bed and maybe getting warm again, because that probably mean Quentin is ready to fuck him. He flips over and curls up a bit, arms tucked underneath him and legs pulled in, his ass pushed up. Quentin snorts.

"Nice try," he says, "but you know better. Come on, arms up."

Well, it was worth a try, Peter thinks as he stretches his arms out and fumbles around for the headboard. He starts to slide his feet down as well, but Quentin stops him. "That's fine," he says. Fucking it is, then.

Fucking it is  _ not. _

No, that would be too easy, too nice, and Quentin is never either of those things. Peter whines when he feels the first ice cube touch his skin; it's not quite as shocking as the earlier ones. Maybe he's just gotten too cold, cold enough the difference between his skin and the ice isn't much. It sure feels like it.

It's still cold though, still really cold as ice runs over his skin, down the length of his spine and pooling in the small of his back; on the nape of his neck and dripping into his hair, down the sides of his neck and sliding down his chest; over his ass and down into the crease of it, over his hole again. Quentin reaches down and tucks Peter's cock down between his legs, right where that cold water can drip onto it. Peter whines and squirms, halfheartedly.

He feels sluggish, too cold to want to move. Even the bed under him is cold and wet, and he's got goosebumps all over that hurt after so long, his skin feeling stretched tight. Quentin pushes another piece of ice inside him and Peter shudders. "Quentin," he says, "please, I want you in me. Fuck me already, won't you?"

"You're such a fucking brat," Quentin says and slaps his ass. He gets up off the bed; Peter can hear him walking off, down the hall maybe, for a few minutes before he comes back and settles between Peter's legs. "You want to be fucked?" he asks.

Peter hesitates. This feels like a trap, but what else can he say. "Yes?" he says. "Please, Quentin. Want your cock."

"Oh, no," Quentin says. "Not a chance of that; you're too cold for me to stick my dick in. Don't worry, I've got something to fill you up with."

Something  _ horrible, _ something big and thick and so cold it burns as Quentin pushes it into him; Peter sobs and finds the energy to fight again, yanking himself forward, away from it. Keeps going until he's got nowhere to go, head pressed up against the headboard, and Quentin isn't stopping. "No," Peter moans as that awful thing slides further into him, so cold and wet and big, fuck, what is it, a dildo made out of ice or something? "Please, please Quentin, no, it's too much, too cold."

"You can take it," Quentin says, completely unconcerned, the  _ bastard.  _ "You are taking it, Peter; just look at your greedy hole pulling it right in."

"No," Peter sobs. "I'm going to freeze to death, please," and he's actually start to feel that might be possible. He's never been so cold in his life.

Quentin just laughs at him. "No you won't," he says. "You might feel like it, though," and then he's fucking Peter with that thing, thrusting it into him in this constant biting cold, filling him up. It's so big and unyielding, as hard as metal and slick, sliding in and out of him easily even while Peter feels stretched out too wide— what little he can feel, his ass starting to go numb. He hopes, at least.

Maybe it's that feeling of numbness, or maybe he's relaxing some—which doesn't seem possible, considering that he's still so tense and curled in on himself, shivering—but it feels like it's easier to take it, like it's not quite as big. Or maybe it's melting, he realizes, feeling more water run down his balls, maybe— maybe it'll melt entirely, maybe it'll disappear and this will be over. Not nearly soon enough.

He's so cold; he can't seem to stop shivering, his breathing coming in short little huffs. Quentin's amusing himself by setting ice cubes on his ass while he fucks Peter with that thing, balancing them there until Peter twitches too much and they go sliding down his back, sometimes slipping under him and making him try to suck in his stomach away from the feel of it, sometimes making it all the way to his neck, dropping down into the space above his collarbone and staying there, melting slowly and chilling him even more. He feels like even his bones are cold by now, like he must be turning blue.

That awful thing isn't getting warmer, isn't getting smaller anymore and Peter doesn't understand how that's possible. Doesn't understand how he can feel so cold, inside and out, and still get hard when Quentin changes how he's fucking Peter with it, hitting that spot over and over. Peter whimpers, the only sound he feels like he can make, and jerks, little tiny movements. It feels good and painful and overwhelming all at once, and he just wants to collapse, just wants to feel warm again. Quentin isn't saying anything to him at all, not like he normally does, and that feels cold too in a way, not hearing that he's doing good, that he looks hot, feels like he's made for Quentin to fuck.

He sniffs, feeling that coldness well up in him too, and he doesn't want to cry, he doesn't want to feel like this; it's just too much. It's way too much, and Quentin keeps ignoring him, even when Peter whispers his name, pleads for this to stop. Even when he tells Quentin he's so cold, please, he's so cold, his voice breaking in the middle. It doesn't even feel good when he comes, just overwhelming and he can't tell the shudders from that from the shivering he can't stop.

Quentin pulls it out, and then he's not even touching Peter anywhere at all. He feels so small and empty and cold and right now, this second, he'd take Quentin's ice cold hands again if it meant he was being touched. He can hear Quentin breathing heavily, can hear the wet slapping sound of him jerking off, and he wishes Quentin would fuck him instead, would make that cold disappear.

"Please," Peter moans, and Quentin groans, coming all over Peter's ass; his come is so  _ hot, _ like hot wax on his skin, scalding drops sliding down his ass, covering his hole. Quentin's hand lands on his ass, big and warm, pulling him open and Peter pushes back into it, into that one spot of warmth.

"Fuck," Quentin sighs, squeezing his handful of flesh. Pulls his hand back and slaps across Peter’s ass, and Peter barely jerks, barely feels any heat from it all. He tries to curl up into a ball when Quentin rolls him over, shivering so hard his teeth are chattering, but Quentin catches his ankle and pushes it back down; Peter gets the hint. Lies, shivering, tears leaking from his eyes even if he's not really crying now, and starts to think he's never going to feel warm again.

It's a shock when Quentin crawls up and lies on top of him, his whole body covering Peter. He's so  _ warm, _ so incredibly warm; Peter moans and pushes up against him as much as he can, his breath hitching as he nuzzles into Quentin's shoulder. "Quentin," he whispers.

"Mmm," Quentin hums, grabbing Peter's hands and pressing them to Quentin's sides, hot, so so hot, like a furnace. He tugs at the blindfold, slipping it up over Peter’s head. "You were incredible, honey," and Peter can't help it, can't stop how he bursts into tears again. All he can do is try to hide it, and he doesn't even manage that. "So pretty," Quentin tells him, bringing his arm up and curling it around Peter's head, forcing him to look up at Quentin, "shivering like that, taking it, crying from just a little cold. You're such a sensitive little thing."

"'m not," Peter mumbles.

"Oh yes you are," Quentin says. "Christ, you're cold," and Peter can't believe him. He pulls his head back as far as he can and glares at Quentin.

Quentin just laughs. "Brat," he says, and then he's pushing up, getting off Peter; Peter whines and grabs at him desperately, already hating the cold air that rushes in between them, whatever small warmth he's stolen from Quentin disappearing. "Stop it," Quentin says. "Just give me a minute. You're so fucking needy."

It's a horrible span of time after Quentin gets up, Peter curling into a ball immediately even if he knows that's not what Quentin wants. He starts shivering harder again, arms wrapped around himself. Quentin rolls him over, yanking the wet comforter out from under Peter, and that helps a little. The sheets below it don't feel quite as cold at least. It's even better when Quentin drops a blanket on top of him, some heavy soft thing that's warm— not just room temperature warm, warmer than Peter, but  _ warm _ like it just came out of the dryer. Even better than that when Quentin crawls under it and pulls Peter close again, and he feels just as shockingly hot as the first time.

Quentin tilts Peter’s head back and kisses him, soft, running his hands down Peter's side, his warm hands, wonderful hands. His mouth is warm when he opens it against Peter's, his tongue warm in Peter's mouth, his whole body so warm. Peter sighs as he finally stops shivering; he feels heavy, exhausted, like he could sleep for a week.

"You know what the best part is?" Quentin asks him, just a breath of sound. Peter shakes his head; words are too hard. "Getting to warm you up after," and he's hooking Peter's leg over his, tucking it up and wrapping his arm around Peter. If the rest of him was warm, his cock is like fire as it slides into Peter; Peter moans and clings to Quentin, too worn out to do anything more than take it as Quentin fucks him, held so close and so tight and so  _ warm. _

By the time he's done, Peter is sweating.


End file.
